The Fall and The Days That Followed
by Cally Starkiller
Summary: This story follows the tedious days of John Watson as he goes on to continue his life without the consulting detective by his side. These are the days that followed Sherlock's fall. And these are the days where John loses the appreciation for life only to gain the strength to believe in Sherlock Holmes.
1. the fall and the days that followed

It was the day after the funeral. As expected, the weather outside was miserable. Just a constant downpour of rain. And it matched his mood. John was sitting in his usual seat in their flat. Well, he figured, it was his flat now. But it was becoming clear that he would have no intentions in staying in 221B Baker Street for long. All he did that day was listen to the rain fall, the thunder rattling the window pane, and the quiet classical music he had on in the background. He stared at the empty seat across from him, the one Sherlock usually occupied. Every once in awhile, he swore he saw Sherlock's figure sitting there, but by the end of the day he told himself it was flashbacks. Memories of a friend that wasn't there anymore. It was his mind playing little tricks on him. Trying to fill the void that was Sherlock.

It was late into the night when he finally stirred from his position, sitting up more properly, hearing his joints creak from not being moved all day. With a loud sigh, John stood up and went to turn off the music. Silence fell.

And he didn't like the silence one bit. It left him alone to this thoughts, let him over think, to dwell upon subjects he did not wish to. John turned back on the music, careful not to make it too loud as to disturb Mrs. Hudson one floor down. He headed for the door, back against the empty room. He glanced about it, remembering every single memory. Sherlock dashing about the room looking for his stash, lounging around the coach bored out of his mind, pacing the floor in deep though, playing the violin by the window. It was all too much.

"Tomorrow." John said to himself. Tomorrow, he'd leave.

This day started the many days that would follow Sherlock's fall.


	2. the love you don't feel

He didn't think he would get much sleep that night. But to his good fortune, he fell sound asleep as soon as he hit the covers. To make up for him being able to sleep right away, his mind played even more tricks on him as he dreamed. Oh and did he dream. John's dream was a silent film, the entirety of it consisting of Sherlock Holmes.

His face when it lit up, ecstatically happy to hear about a murder case from Lestrade.

The bored faces he pulled when a dull client lulled them to sleep with their uninteresting cases.

The intensity of his face when he deduced a person, eyes scanning each single detail about them.

The jokes and laughs that passed between the two, honest genuine laughter erupting from Sherlock.

His scrunched up eyebrows when he was confused or dumbfounded, which was rare to see.

Sherlock's careful adjustment of his favorite blue scarf and his long fingers flicking up his collar, something John found to annoying at first but enduring in the end.

Tantrums Sherlock threw when he didn't exactly get what he wanted or whenever John made him eat his dinner when he wasn't particularly hungry.

How he played the violin a little too loudly when unwanted visitors or guests arrived.

His apparent disregard for emotions and people's feelings when he got information from victims or clients.

It was something that confused John on some occasions, where Sherlock would be able to pick up on one of his ticks to check if he was angry or upset.

But other times, he was pretty clueless when it came to matters such as this.

As John so often told him, "For a pretty clever detective, you can be really oblivious about certain things."

John's dream went back to listing off all the details he knew, admired, maybe even appreciated about Sherlock. Just the little things he noticed or realized about his friend.

Whenever one of Sherlock's images talked, John longed to hear the words. To listen to what Sherlock had to say, even if he's already heard it before.

It wasn't until John's dream replayed Sherlock's last moments again, his falling figure, jerked John awake. He was heavily breathing, hands shaking a little.

John laid back down, forcing himself to calm down. After what felt like ages, John's heartbeat lowered to a steady pace. However, his mind was clouded with images of Sherlock's bloodied body, him falling through the air, his feet resting upon the precipice of death. There was one thing John noticed though. He could've imagined it. But John focused on it. Him staring up at the rooftop, Sherlock talking to him through the phone. It was only when Sherlock tossed away his phone that John saw it. Even from a great distance, him being on the ground while Sherlock was way high up, he saw Sherlock's lips move in a familiar way. It was a word.

But it was a word that would elude him for long while.

"How lucky I am to have known someone who was so hard to say goodbye to."

John's own words hovered about in the air in front of him, out there for nobody to hear but himself. It only amplified the simple fact that Sherlock was gone.

When John laid back down to hopefully continue sleeping, his dream came back again. This time, it was all words and no images.

His dream state replayed all the words him and Sherlock exchanged since first meetings, some unconsciously causing him to smile and others to frown.

"You machine!"

John awoke with a start again. His harsh tone, so unforgiving, would haunt him. He'd always regret saying those words. Because while at times they rang true it was the other times, that it would be the complete opposite.

"Oh god no."


	3. lay your weary head to rest

The moment Sherlock Holmes left his life was the moment he no longer saw the battlefield.

He had been packing his possessions, alone up in his room. The bedroom was vacant and empty, aside from one object. His cane rested in the corner, never having to be used since the day Sherlock took him out on an adventure, out into the battlefield. John's mind was suddenly filled with every single case they've ever taken on: the insignificant ones, the major ones, the unsolved ones, the ones that truly made him feel alive. And with a blink of an eye, all that excitement and the thrill of danger, was gone.

John strode over to his old cane, left hand hesitating to reach for it. It trembled and tremored, old habits coming back to life now that Sherlock's own life has ended. With a curse, he jerked away his left hand and stuffed it into his pocket, a vain attempt at calming himself down. He picked up the cane with his right hand and proceeded to walk back over to his bags on the bed.

That familiar aching pain resided within his leg, stopping him in his tracks. _No no no, God no. _He thought. _Damn my leg._

A myriad of thoughts and feelings ran right through him. The world around him suddenly appeared dull and faded. It was hard, transitioning from a life full of crime and solving cases and running around Sherlock Holmes to one filled with nothing but quiet days and lonely nights. He would never feel that thrill again, the exhilaration of the life he once led with the one and only consulting detective.

It was gone.

…

John had decided a little while longer, at least until he could get his affairs in order, get back his old flat. It had only been a week since his fall and he was already all too willing to get away from 221B. The place haunted him. Mrs. Hudson understood, of course, but was willing to keep 221B open for him. _Just in case_, she said, _if he ever changed his mind about leaving._

One morning he woke up, same as ever, and he marked off the date in his mental calendar for another day since Sherlock's passing. It has now been two weeks and he still hasn't left. As much as the place repelled him, it also drew him in.

He got out of bed, still in his sleepwear, and grabbed his cane. He limped over to the stairs and back down to the main room, where the main action usually happened. Sometimes, he'd like to imagine Lestrade would come up the stairs and give him a case and John would bound up from his chair, in an all too familiar Sherlock fashion, giddy for his fix. Other times, John would visualize Sherlock coming through that door, asking him to join him on a case.

And recently, on cold silent nights, John would lay in bed and strain to hear that old violin playing. Sherlock often woke him up at odd times in the night, playing his instrument or constructing new music. The first few times, John would get after him, telling him to go to sleep for he very much needed it. But after that, he soon gave up and he'd instead listen to him play. A content smile would cross his face as he fell asleep to Sherlock's beautiful music playing.

There was no violin playing that night. Nor the next night. Or the night after that.

But to his joy, John finally heard Sherlock play his violin one night. He sat there and listened, that same old content smile crossing his face. It was a different tune this time around. It was less angelic and more morbid, the song clearly unfinished as Sherlock would adjust his strings and change notes. This went on till early morning and just as abruptly as when Sherlock started playing did he stop.

John hurried to go down the stairs, momentarily forgetting his cane and his pain, to see what made Sherlock stop.

"Sherlock, are you there?"

It was met with silence. There had been no one there. No one to play that violin.

It had all been in his head. Just like his damned leg.

With a limp, John Watson went back to bed only to hear him play again.


End file.
